


The Adventure Of The Tide-Waiter (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [83]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Deception, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, Kent (county), M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Prostitution, Scandal, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 04:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10936986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A tide-waiter sets Sherlock and John on the trail of his brother, who is doing suspiciously well for himself – but how, exactly? And the great detective shows that even he knows his limits.





	The Adventure Of The Tide-Waiter (1888)

Foreword: Only older generations like my own will recognize the job title in this story. In the days when ships had to wait for high tide to dock at some ports, a tide-waiter was a customs official who would take advantage of that delay to board and complete customs checks on those who needed it, thus enabling people to be more quickly on their way once the ship had docked. Superior harbours and ships have since rendered the post obsolete, at least in British waters.

+~+~+

I had hoped that the brief delay caused to our return home to Baker Street by the Bohemian Affair would have been it, and that we could have made it home without any further misadventures. Of course it was not to be.

In the few short hours between our arrival in Rotterdam and our ship's departure to Sheerness, the English Channel managed to brew up one of those storms for which it is justifiably infamous. With only an hour to go before our departure, I could already see our ship rising and falling at the quayside, even in the shelter of the harbour. I winced at the thought of putting my poor stomach through a crossing in that.

I should have known better. Sherlock suggested that we spend the night in the town and, if the storm had not abated by the morn, make for Calais. Since most storms travelled up the Channel (i.e from the west), it would clear that port first, and going there would have the added advantage of a shorter crossing, for which my stomach was most appreciative. The storm did not abate, so we set off and made it to the former English possession safely enough, although it was full three days before the seas were tranquil enough to to make the crossing to Dover, and home. I was so close, I could almost smell Mrs. Harvelle's delicious breakfast!

I really, really should have known better!

+~+~+

As our ship approached to within sight of Dover's mighty castle and those wonderfully welcome white cliffs and we awaited high tide so we could dock, a customs boat drew alongside. I sighed heavily. Some bumptious overbearing Nosy Parker who, because someone had made the mistake of giving him a suit with shiny buttons, thinks that he can delay an Englishman going about his daily business. I only hoped that they would question those of foreign appearance and leave us alone, xenophobic though that probably was. But I was tired, so close to English soil, and just wanted to be home.

I was not to be that lucky. The first official, a short, scrawny chap who looked as if a strong wind would blow him over the side (admittedly that may have been wishful thinking on my part) looked at our passports as if he could not believe what he was seeing.

“You're flippin' Sherlock Holmes?” he said incredulously. 

I supposed that I could understand his disbelief. Sherlock liked to go outside during sea-crossings, with the result that his permanently dreadful hair somehow attained new depths of disorder. He looked less the great detective and more like someone who had been blown off the nearby cliff-top and had been fortunate enough to land on the ship.

“I am”, Sherlock said politely. “Is there a problem, sir?”

The fellow looked between us, then surprised us both with a fair turn of speed along the deck to where we could see the other official. I could not see much of this second person as there were too many people in the way, except that he had to have been prodigiously tall, as his fair head towered above those around him.

“Harry!” the first officer yelled at him. “He's here! Flippin' Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

I glared skywards. Someone up there owed me for what was certainly about to befall us.

+~+~+

It was a little time after and, annoyingly, our nice, warm, fast train to London had departed from the harbour station without us on it. We were sat in a small office which was filled with the second customs officer, who turned out to be almost as broad in the shoulder as he was tall. There was not an ounce of fat on him, and I remember thinking that he would have looked more at home in a Viking longboat that in a dingy customs office (an observation of mine which, and I have to record this, was for once correct; we later learnt that the man's family was of Viking stock. See, I was right _some_ times!).

Sherlock really needed to get something for that cough of his.

“Name's Harold Godfreyson, sir”, the giant rumbled. “I wrote to you a month or so ago, but got a reply back that you were out of the country, and it was not known when you'd be back.”

I was sure that someone up there hated me at times. London had been so close, and now this!

“How may we be of assistance?” Sherlock asked politely (as always, the 'we' made me feel a little better, as I am sure he knew it would).

“It's about that brother of mine”, the man said. “We're a large family – there's seven of us all told, four boys and three girls – and Sweyn, the eldest, well... he's maybe in a spot of bother.”

“What sort of 'bother'?” Sherlock asked, whilst I wondered at the 'maybe'. The tall man scratched his thatch. 

“Don't rightly know”, he admitted. “You see, he had an argument with our dad when he turned eighteen just over ten years back and stormed out the house, saying he was going to London to make his fortune. I haven't heard from him since.”

“Then how do you know that he is 'maybe' in trouble?” Sherlock asked patiently. It was like pulling teeth, I thought.

“He writes to Magnus – next down after me – once in a while”, the man said. “And he's also in touch with Chris, the youngest, as well. Mother's been fretting a lot lately what with Father being ill, and she's even said she may go up to the smoke to see Sweyn.” He blushed. “I'm not explaining it very well, am I, sirs?”

“Your job is akin in some ways to that of the doctor here”, Sherlock said, much to my surprise. “Both depend to a certain extent on using human intuition to make up for what can sometimes be a dearth of factual evidence. Clearly you sense that something is wrong and, given the nature of your job, then some piece of evidence has, whether consciously or subconsciously, triggered an alarm bell somewhere. I think that I might speak to your brothers. Are they available?”

“Not here, sir”, he said. “Magnus lives in Canterbury with his wife and family, and Chris works in the docks in Chatham. He's single.”

I groaned inwardly. We would never get to London at this rate!

Sherlock stood up and I assumed that we were going to leave, but he seemed oddly fascinated by some sort of chart on the wall. He turned to the tide-waiter.

“That is your duty roster, is it not?” he asked. For some reason the man blushed.

“Uh.... yes, sir.”

Sherlock stepped closer to the chart and looked at it for some little time before turning slowly back to the man. Harold Godfreyson had to be at least six inches taller and a couple of stone heavier than my friend, but bigger men than him would have backed away from that look. I half expected him to make a break for the door.

“Only two people, apart from ourselves, knew about our change of plans to come through Dover instead of Sheerness”, Sherlock said coolly. “After our Bohemian adventure, I made it quite clear to both my brothers that they were not to reveal our whereabouts for anything short of a national emergency, until we had reached home. Yet you have clearly re-arranged matters so you could be on duty today." He paused before adding ominously, "which one was it?”

The man gulped. 

“Mr. Gaylord Holmes, sir”, he said, now visibly trembling. “He said..... he.... uh..... you wouldn't mind.”

My friend stared at him for a while, then a slow smile creased his features. It was the sort of smile that made me offer up a prayer, not for the first or the last time, that Mr. Sherlock Holmes had never taken up a life of crime. That smile was pure evil!

“Very well”, he growled. “I shall still help you in this matter, Mr. Godfreyson, as I must say that it quite intrigues me. I shall... deal with my brother later.”

I made a mental note to check the “Times” obituary pages for the few days after our return. Well, you never knew!

And why was Sherlock shaking his head at me? Harrumph!

+~+~+

It was the London, Chatham and Dover Railway Company, unfortunately still as dreadful as always, that managed to get us to the ancient home of the English Church, despite being behind an engine that frankly should have been in a museum somewhere. Fortunately, the address that the giant tide-waiter had given us (with a shaking hand, I had noticed, until Sherlock had re-iterated that he did not hold him personally responsible for his actions) was close to the station. 

Mr. Magnus Godfreyson lived in a smart little terraced house that opened out directly onto the road. He was, we had been told, a builder, and fittingly enough was built along the same massive lines as his elder brother, although with brown rather than fair hair. I began to feel sorry for poor Mrs. Godfreyson wherever she was, having to push out such strapping boys.

Sherlock looked around the room curiously, and seemed to find the small and rather plain writing-desk worthy of far more attention that it deserved, before sitting down with our host.

“Harry is fretting over nothing!” Magnus Godfreyson scoffed when Sherlock told him why we were there. “Sweyn's doing fine in London; he just isn't the sort to write letters every five minutes.”

“Your family does not seem the sort to skip familial obligations”, Sherlock observed dryly. “Your brother stated that your mother is increasingly concerned about him, especially after her husband's illness. She is even thinking of going up to London for a surprise visit.”

Even I spotted it. A small but definite reaction. 

“We're supporting Mother to find her and Father a nice place by the sea, now she's getting on in years”, our host said stoutly. “There's seven of us, so it's no burden. I can ask Sweyn to write her, but he's got a memory like a sieve.”

Sherlock tilted his head to one side and looked curiously at our host.

“I am going to ask you a somewhat personal question, Mr, Godfreyson”, he said. “Your business marches well?”

The man looked surprised, but answered.

“Yes”, he said. “We have a contract for repairs up at the cathedral, which is pretty much an all-year round job with the size of the place. Not on the church itself though; just the out-buildings.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and thought for a moment, then smiled.

“We have taken up too much of your valuable time, sir”, he smiled. “Thank you for seeing us. Good day.”

He swept from the house and I followed him. He went so fast that he disappeared for a moment around the corner of the terrace block, and I nearly ran into him when I turned to follow.

“Watch!” he grinned.

Sure enough, Magnus Godfreyson bustled out of his door just moments after us, checked briefly to see if we were still around, then headed rapidly towards the post office at the end of the street.

“He is warning his brother?" I asked, watching the man go inside.

“In a way”, Sherlock smiled.

I sighed. What did I see in him?

+~+~+

Sherlock said that we would have time to look around the cathedral, as the train he wished to catch did not leave for another couple of hours. I greatly enjoyed the ancient building, though I wondered what dear old St. Augustine would have made of the way things had turned out in the country he had reluctantly gone to, and for that matter what he would make of us. Then it was back to the dreaded London, Chatham and Dover, and hoping for something better than Stephenson's “Rocket” this time round!

“What was your interest in that horrible writing-desk?” I asked.

“Not so much the desk as what was protruding from one of the drawers in it”, Sherlock said. “Two bank transfer receipts.”

“He is a businessman”, I pointed out. Sherlock shook his head.

“Like railway tickets, many such receipts are unique in colour and design”, he said. “And the ones in his drawer are from a very private London bank which demands a high income before it will even consider to admit people as its clients. Mr. Magnus Godfreyson would have no reason to deal with them as a Kentish builder, so his brother Sweyn is sending him money, presumably for their mother. Furthermore, this Sweyn is exceptionally well off, yet his brother Magnus did not mention his source of income, although he must surely be aware of it. I find that quite fascinating.”

I sighed. I might be on land, but mentally I was, as usual, all at sea. Oh well, at least it was a calm sea.

+~+~+

After a ride that seemed interminable, we reached the naval port of Chatham; at least we were going in the right direction for London now. Again we were fortunate, as Mr. Christian Godfreyson lived a little over a mile from the station, and a cab soon whisked us to another terraced house, as well-maintained as the first. And another huge hulk of a man, this time with strawberry blond curly hair that looked oddly boyish on such a huge figure. He was not pleased to see us.

“Gentlemen like yourselves shouldn't be digging up what's best left alone”, he said sourly. 

“And if your mother decided to call on your eldest brother unexpectedly?” Sherlock asked, and I noted how pale the man went at those words. “What do you think _she_ would say? Would not the shock be quite dreadful?”

The man stared at us uncertainly.

“I suspect”, Sherlock said with a slight smile, “that this case hinges a lot around the idea of morality. If you deal honestly with me, Mr. Godfreyson, I can help you in your little game. But I need that address.”

“What address?” I asked.

“The molly-house owned by his eldest brother”, Sherlock said simply.

I stared at him in shock. Our host sighed.

“Molly-houses, plural”, he said unhappily. “He has a whole empire of the damn things. And you wonder why we keep him away from Mother?”

“Give me his address”, Sherlock smiled, “and as I said, I will help you. Otherwise.... well, if your mother does decide on a sudden trip to London, we all know that the Fates will ensure she finds out. I doubt that she would be happy.”

The man shuddered, but took a piece of paper and wrote an address on it.

+~+~+

I have to say that I was more than a little surprised at what I hoped would be our final destination. I had expected an address somewhere in the East End, but this was one of the very best parts of London and, rather disconcertingly, within a mile of dear Baker Street. I shall not of course divulge the exact address, although I knew the area quite well, and found it amusing that two noblemen, a fellow doctor and a high-ranking politician were all unaware as to who their near neighbour really was. 

Unless they were clients here themselves, I supposed.

The address itself was definitely not a molly-house, I thought, as we were admitted to a building not dissimilar to our own dear 221B by a sharply-dressed footman, who took our cards and ushered us into a waiting-room. There was only a short wait, and then we ascended to see Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson. He had the same build as all his brothers, but his hair was almost white-blond, and he looked even younger than his less than thirty years. I was not depressed by the fact that we were now getting clients younger than I myself.

Sherlock was looking at me again!

“You wished to see me, gentlemen?” Mr. Godfreyson asked.

“Yes”, Sherlock said. “It is about your mother.”

The man would have made an excellent poker player, I thought. He did not even blink. 

“Is there a problem with her?” he asked. “I do not keep in direct contact, but two of my brothers keep me informed of her health and welfl-being.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Your brother Harold, a tide-waiter whom we 'chanced' to meet at Dover, bade us inquire as to why your contact with her and the rest of the family is so irregular."

“I am not one to write long letters”, our host said.

“Your brother is also concerned that your mother is making suggestions concerning a possible trip to see you in London”, Sherlock said smoothly. “Maybe even a surprise visit.”

That definitely got a reaction. The man clenched his fist and drew a deep breath.

“She must be stopped!” he said firmly. Sherlock chuckled.

“I have achieved many great feats in my time”, he said, “but stopping a lady from doing something once she has set her mind on it – well, sir, I know my limits. But if she cannot be stopped, it is my suggestion that she may be.... deflected.”

The giant leaned forward.

“How?” he asked.

“”It is your extreme good fortune that I may require a favour that you would be in a position to provide”, Sherlock said. “Nothing involving your employees who, I suspect, look up to you as a good employer.”

“How do you know that?” I asked suspiciously.

“Because only when this particular industry is well run does it generate the sums of money that enable Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson here to bank where he does and to be the prime supporter of his dear mother.”

“My brothers....” the man began.

“Do not trifle with me, sir”, Sherlock cut in. “I have so far met a tide-waiter, a stonemason and a dock worker. I would wager that, were I to inquire into your three sisters' financial situations, I would be highly unlikely to find that any of them had chanced to have married a millionaire. None of your siblings can generate the sums of money that you do from your business.”

The man looked at him warily, then sighed.

“I treat my boys right”, he said, a little defensively. “It's always cash up front, and a cut goes into a general pool to support those going through rough times and the ones who retire from, uh, the business.”

“I see that some of them are working here”, Sherlock said. When the man looked surprised, he continued, “your footman is possessed of several marks on his face and hands that I have seen in cases that involve people in 'the business'.”

I shuddered.

“So suppose I do you your favour?” Mr. Godfreyson said cautiously. “What can you do for me, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock smiled.

“I have certain unique contacts”, he said, “who can set up a fake business of any sort in a matter of days, if not hours. We could establish you as something seemingly respectable, find you a temporary home in perhaps a more middle-class area so that your mother is not suspicious, and then invite her to London and let her see that her eldest son is settled and happy, and that she need not worry. I can also arrange a set of financial circumstances that make it look as if you have just been singularly fortunate, and being the good son, are of course supporting her as any son would.”

“I am happy”, he sighed. “Bill – he was one of my first lads, and he's retired now – he and I live here, although to the neighbours he's just the tenant in the basement.” He looked between the two of us and smiled knowingly. “Got to keep up appearances, haven't we all?”

“For the sake of family, we must”, Sherlock said. “Which brings me to the favour that I would ask of you. It goes like this.....”

+~+~+

I was never so happy to see dear old 221B's Georgian façade looming over a wet Baker Street through the winter drizzle. Mrs. Harvelle, bless the woman, had been alerted by a telegram that Sherlock had sent from Victoria, and there was a delicious meal (yes, a fry-up with plenty of bacon!) waiting for us as soon as we were into our indoor clothes. It was heaven!

I do not know how, but when Mrs. Harvelle brought up a tray with our meals, she gave me a knowing look that said she knew full well that things had changed between me and Sherlock since our departure. She said nothing, for which I was eternally grateful. Indeed, that and the general joy at being home may have been why I quite forgot to press Sherlock about the favour he had requested from Mr. Godfreyson.

+~+~+

It was a week later when I opened the “Times” to see what was afoot in the world, and saw a familiar name on the front page. I read the article, smiled, then read it again. I was still grinning when Sherlock emerged from his room, looking as dreadful as ever.

“There is a fascinating article in the paper this morning”, I said. “Apparently the manager of the Grand Hotel has been sacked after he contrived to let a couple of male prostitutes into the elderly Duchess of Lavenham's suite. She returned from the theatre to something of a surprise!”

“I am surprised that the manager did not deny it”, Sherlock yawned.

“They had a signed letter from him asking them to attend on a gentleman in Room 104”, I said. “ _Most_ unfortunately they went to Room 401 by mistake.”

“Oh dear”, Sherlock said flatly. “How terrible. Do they happen to have mentioned the name of this most unfortunate manager?”

“They do”, I grinned. “A Mr. Gaylord Holmes.”

“Oops”, he said insincerely, pouring himself a second cup of coffee.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Three weeks after Mr. Gaylord Holmes had (again) learnt the hard way not to annoy his little brother, we received a very proper thank-you note from Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson, telling us how his mother had recently visited her son in his small West London house, and been delighted that he was doing so well for himself working as a manager at a small shipping company. He offered whatever payment for Sherlock's services by friend would ask, but my friend wrote back to say that he might or might not call on the services of Mr. Godfreyson's 'business' at some time in the future, and that that would constitute any payment.

+~+~+

Next, there is no rest for the wicked or the good, as Sherlock helps out a friend in Trincomalee.


End file.
